The walls around my desk are covered with post-it notes: scraps of shiny, sparkly ideas that line my office like a magpie's nest. One note bears the handwriting of my fishing partner, Ruth. It says:
5 Truths
Apparent truth
Real truth
Spirit truth
Shadow truth
Fairytale truth
Those who have known MomBrain since dinosaurs roamed the earth know that she plays the piano. I studied classical piano for many years, and finally quit when I realized I wasn't willing to work hard enough to make up for my lack of talent. Imagine it. Four hours a day all alone in a little room insulated with acoustic tiles. My back hurt all the time. My forearms ached. My hands and fingers were ice cold from playing so much. And I was beginning to hate something I had loved since I could remember. So, faced with a lifetime of playing Twinkle, Twinkle to a bunch of third graders, I did the sensible thing and bolted.
Now, more than twenty years later, I have stunning proof that we cannot escape our fate. A week from Monday, MomBrain will be performing The Crawdad Song with a third-grade chorus. Their usual pianist is AWOL, and somehow - despite Oprah's best advice to Just Say No - I agreed to fill in. Now, I know The Crawdad Song isn't exactly Rachmaninoff. But it still requires learning, and practice, and a black skirt. And there's the whole shoe problem, namely that I don't have any. Skirts require heels, but piano pedals require flats. It's an issue.
And now, rereading this, I realize that as a writer I often spend more than four hours a day alone in a little room. My back still hurts all the time. My arms ache, and my hands get cold from typing so much. But this time I don't hate what I'm doing. I run to my little room every chance I get. I hunger for it. I guess that makes all the difference.
Here at MomBrain HQ we have kicked off the Season of Light with something less than holiday cheer. In fact, we launched the festivities with a Major Meltdown, in which MomBrain suddenly and deeply realized she was hosting three families for Thanksgiving dinner, a Christmas party in mid-December, and the Parental Units for two weeks over Christmas and New Year's.
The Big Guy hid all the sharp objects in the house while I doubled my meds and tried to stop hyperventilating. WHAT WAS I THINKING? I immediately resolved to simplify, prioritize, and wash many towels.
Resolution #1: Cater. Those of you with fond memories of Thanksgiving dinner have probably never cooked it. The planning, the shopping, the cooking, the cooking, the cooking, the dishes, the dishes, the dishes. What is Thanksgiving without tradition? EASIER. Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners will be catered, plus whatever other people want to cook. And I'll have pizza delivered for the party in mid-December. I feel better already.
Resolution #2: Buy a fake Christmas tree. For over twenty years I have insisted on a real Christmas tree. The choosing, the schlepping, the sawing, the watering, the vacuuming, the dead tree on the side of the road ... what is Christmas without tradition? SIMPLER. I'll store it in my basement and buy the smell in a can.
Resolution #3: Shop 100% online. God invented the Internet for a reason, and that is to make Christmas shopping faster and easier. Who am I to ignore manna from heaven?
If you have other ideas about simplifying the holidays, leave your comments here!
Today is a sad day. My friend K has died. I don't know how or why - only that it was sudden, and at 42, unexpected. I know and love many people, but I think only a handful genuinely make the world a happier place - and K was one of them.
I called him Garth. He called me Dolly. Dean Koontz novels were our shared guilty pleasure. We were writing buddies and musical wannabes, co-conspirators and gossip queens. More than anything, we laughed. Hard. We should have had a morning DJ show together, although I'm not sure anyone else thought we were that funny. But we could riff off each other for hours.
I will think of K every time I see spoons in a drawer, read Dean Koontz, hear Garth Brooks, drive on the Renton S-curves, and eat stuffed tomatoes. He was one of my favorite people, and I am bereft.
If you've come here to have a little laugh, then go somewhere else. Today is not about laughing. Today is not about fluffy nonsense. Today is not about the trivial absurdities that stick in my lint filter of a brain.
Today is about asking the entire population of the world, every single person on this planet, to stop asking me when I am going to have a second child. Well, actually, it's the polite ones that ask. The rude ones tell me I must have a second child, that I'm being selfish by having only one, that I'm condemning the Little Guy to a life of loneliness. When told that we cannot have a second child, they lecture me about the moral superiority of adoption, remind me that lightning does strike twice, tell me that since I can clearly afford it I should rush back to Dr. StrangeLove and stick more needles in my stomach and have more surgery and ride the hormone rollercoaster that is fertility treatment.
No. No. No.
I am so tired of explaining, defending, and apologizing for the size of my family. So, a massive "bugger off" to ...
The "friend" who hid a dirty diaper in my glove compartment for luck.
The manicurist who held me hostage with sharp implements while lecturing me about the many blessings of large families.
The housekeeper who regaled me with tales of international adoption and the selfishness of trying to conceive when children are starving in Africa.
The preschool teacher who tried to convince me that it's so much easier with two and that it's not too late to try.
The so-called friend who wished me happy birthday by reminding me that my ovaries aren't getting any younger.
The many, many people who have told me to sleep on the beach or go on vacation or a million other ways to "just relax."
Put simply, the number of children I have and the way I have them is my business. So ...
To the rich, smart, beautiful friend who doesn't want any children, you have my full support.
To the borderline poor friend who has seven children and wants to try for number eight, you have my full support.
To the single-mom friend who has adopted one child and decided not to adopt a second, you have my full support.
To the friend with cancer who has conceived twins through a surrogate, you have my full support.
To the family with two mommies who just adopted a little girl, you have my full support.
To the friend who just sold her car to raise money for a fourth attempt at IVF, you have my full support.
To the friend who is committed to inter-racial adoption, you have my full support.
Now. May I please have yours?
